The Dark
- Creative Writing to Inspire -

Running with the symbol of the dark as evil.
A cuspid darkness of wolfish stealth stalks city streets with gravest breath. Darkness on silent lupine paws, claws concrete scars, digs out its prey. Darkness silences each aroma to a sallow whimper, to a greyed out shell where once flowers danced. Darkness strangles hearts and souls, crunching them as whiskey stained paper bags, releasing them as tumbleweed on desert sands. Darkness negotiates with none and offers only to arrest the heart, cage its beats, sever vein and artery. Cow to its oppression if that is your must, yet never fool yourself that light’s gold wasn’t both your birthright and destiny. So, brave-heart, dim the darkness. Dim it harsh. Dim it until its own soul sparks, its own heart beats and its aromas rise. Kill it soft, but kill it fast. Stab the beast with your soul-light and make it last. 
 
Running with the symbol of the dark as evil.
A fist of wind pounded darkness’s aeons forgotten name, the one that seeped from synapses as easily as fish-netted rain. Slates cracked. Chimney stacks fell. Doors from aging hinges blew. Windows smashed to shattered shards, sharp edge-glint silenced, aghast. For the darkness was a storm older than the eye of great Jupiter, with power enough to block the sun, to fell grand oaks roots and all make bravest hearts run. It chilled every spine to brittle ice. It cleaved each soul in one foul slice. Darkness then demanded, “Are all the hero’s done? At long last, have I won?”

Running against the symbol of the dark as evil.
Darkness came as velvet hug, to serenade stars with black’s bold song. She was the orchestra and the choir too, she soothed dayshine’s hues and let them dream anew. She was the cradle of the wind’s night ballad, the one of camelot days and armour strong. She bade the sun to take his rest, regain his strength, to make tomorrow’s dawn his best. Until then she held the night, cloaked the land, wove aroma and susurrations into lullaby-gold.
 
Running against the symbol of the dark as evil.
Darkness was mother to the cracking world, lending her cloak when the wind was ice. To the once mighty mountains that crouched, she was salve. To the rivers without flowing cover, she was a shield. To the once pretty flowers that winter dishevelled, she was their seed’s protector. From hunters she stole sight and sound. From evil she stole prudent sense and sanity. For noble darkness was the one the light ran to when all was lost, the last true fighter who bore the mark of goodness.
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